NaPoWriMo #10 - Wonderful Ed's Blood-Red Cardinal
Easter Sunday I lay in bed and watch
helpless as
A fresh blanket of snow covers Spring’s progress
White
White
White
I scan my bedroom for the brightest thing
The blood-red breast of a cardinal
Perched on the top closet shelf
Carved from scrap wood
In the ramshackle backyard workshop
of Wonderful Ed
—
Last summer we can still fly
South like birds and we do
The whole family
A rented car
An unexplored suburb of
Old town Santa Fe
Nothing but a hand-painted sign
Confirms we have arrived
Nobody greets us
Even though we have called ahead
We are strangers
Beginning to feel like intruders
In New Mexico, we have climbed a waterfall
Slipped down its current
Driven the sagebrush hills of Abiquiu to Ghost Ranch
Then back on lightless white-knuckle roads
Blurred by rain and wind
We have been brave
Until our visit to Ed Larson
Having come so far –
2000 miles to Santa Fe and 2000 more to this driveway –
We disembark
Tiptoe into an empty backyard studio,
Calling out ‘hello’ to the silence
I have visited Ed on Canyon Road
His folk-art enchantment of a horse-barn
His roots and wings for 30 years
He would bring out some new creation every day
To hear his neighbours say “that’s wonderful, Ed”
And it was
Until the weight of art-world rents became unbearable
Ed packed up and moved his studio home
By appointment only
So I have called
This new studio is a faded reproduction
Supplies scattered about – more a tinkerer’s workshop than a gallery
A tinny radio blares
Out into the unkempt yard
Fading sculptures
A wooden alligator
A saddle
Marking the path towards the front porch of a private home
We take the path
More sculptures guard the front door
A flock of common birds
Rough-hewn by Ed’s chisels
Legs of bent coat hangers
Wings cut from pop cans
We decide against knocking and turn to leave
When Ed’s wife Bonnie comes out with the trash
We ignore or forgot any misunderstanding as
She calls Ed to the door and tells him we’ve come for a tour
Ed leads us back
Into the yard, through the brush
Into buildings we’ve missed,
Filled with dozens of paintings
Chronicling dozens of years
His friend who’d won a National Endowment for the Arts
A red-headed cowboy troubadour
His wild years as a sailor
The boys on the canvas still pulling on their navy pants
Topless women shouting after them
My wife, my teenaged kids and I
Listen as 87-year-old Ed
Stumbles over memories triggered by
A lifetime of artwork
A glorious, colourful past
Our tour ends with iced tea and cookies
Prepared by Bonnie
We all sit in their living room
Surrounded by canvases and carvings
A floor lamp made from rifles
When the time comes to leave we know
We can’t go empty-handed
So we ask about the birds
How much?
Ed says’ twenty and Bonnie corrects him
Forty.
She is kind, to be sure
She gives my daughter a beaded bracelet
Made in Mexico by
Women she has given years of her heart to serve
She is kind but practical
Keeper of accounts
Anchor
Sober morning
The partner every dreamer needs
We deliberate
The cardinal is the obvious choice
Brazen red and the favourite bird of my wife’s grandma
But a more humble brown bird calls out
We ask Ed what kind of bird it is
And he consults a little guidebook where
It turns out
All of these birds came from
We buy the brown bird
Weave our goodbyes with thank yous and hopes to return
And walk out the front door
Back into reality
But not before
Ed scurries out after us
Holding a secret in his hands
The cardinal cupped so gently it might be breathing
Ed gives it to us
Whispers thank you
And go quickly
—
It seems likely, this cold Easter morning,
We may never return
And if we do the Larsons may not be there
88 is old
Even for a folk-artist
I lay in bed and watch
helpless as
A fresh blanket of snow covers Spring’s progress
White
White
White
I scan my bedroom for the brightest thing
The blood-red breast of a cardinal